


Served

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 17:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20979326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Angels were made to serve.Crowley was an angel, once.





	Served

Angels were made to serve. It was their core function, their _telos_. Without it, they floundered. Aziraphale should know, he’d been caught up in the simple current of command, then let it carry him further and further downstream until he could barely see the banks bordering land. Caught up in the easy way you could say ‘it’s just my job’, or ‘it’s the Plan’ or ‘it’s what She wants’. 

To begin with, it had been fine. And then he had told himself it was fine. And then he had told everyone else it was fine.

It had not been fine.

But the longing had still been there. The memory of a time before, when everything had been _good_ and _right_. Before the concept of **wrong** had even been a twinkle in Her eye. The time when he’d been perfectly, innocently content. A childhood, to use a Human interpretation. A time of simple pleasures.

He was no longer simple, and pleasure turned out to go much deeper. One might even think the bitter twist of imperfection made the bliss greater, or the longing deeper. If one were poetically inclined.

Crowley, too, was an angel. Albeit the fallen kind now, he’d been made the same way. The same upbringing, the same childhood… a different adolescence. He’d rebelled where Aziraphale had complied. He’d questioned, where Aziraphale had quandered. He’d rejected, and suffered the consequences.

But he still remembered the way it had been. The way it had felt. 

He still remembered Heaven.

The first time he’d caught the hints of it, he’d been worried the demon was mocking him. Mocking how institutionalised he’d been, how he’d let his fears control him for so long. It had sparked a fight, and it had ended only when they both pretended it hadn’t happened. 

And still, the angel would see it. See it in the way the demon moved to pull his chair out, but turned his face to hide his expression. Embarrassed by the urge to serve that wound through his very being. 

He took so many pains to hide it. Layers of sarcasm and denial like varnish over old wood. They slicked the surface, but age made the warp shine through. 

His chair. A mug of cocoa, delivered unasked for. Gifts. Things appearing in his shop. Sacrifices he made. It was more than just courtship, it was…

It was blasphemous to call it ‘worship’, but it was, all the same.

He would twist his lips and pretend not to be happy with his compromises, but he’d make them. Over and over and over again. He’d come running in on burning feet, or across the Channel, or into Heaven itself. He’d do anything Aziraphale asked, if only the angel would.

Aziraphale isn’t sure he’s worthy of so much, but he’ll take it, all the same. And when he sees the lines and chains that bind his demon up just _go_, he knows it’s a mercy on them both.

Crowley moves through the world like occupying any predictable next step could land him in the path of a righteous bolt from the sky. Slinking and skulking and always ready to scarper. He hides behind those spectacles of his, looking out but not letting anyone look in. His clothes and car an armour, a glamour of current ‘trends’, desperate to fit in and stand out and not be seen, all bundled up in one.

But when the angel uses _that_ voice… suddenly the scales drop from his eyes. Or, more precisely, what covers the scales. 

It’s stunning to see. To watch how the shrug glides off him. Like a swan, he beats invisible wings and arches with inner surety. His posture perfect, his attention rapt and focussed. 

His eyes never leave him, not unless they are ordered down or front and centre. Then he stands, statue-still, and only his pupils track the angel as he circles his prey.

The restlessness just goes, replaced with hyper-fixation. Alertness, readiness… wound like a spring but under complete control.

Under _his_ control.

Aziraphale has to admit, it’s… intoxicating. He had never enjoyed the command of other angels, even in his own platoon. It was too exhausting to think of them as tools and individuals at the same time. Plus, the orders themselves were…

Anyway, this is different. Oh, so very different. He tells the demon to ‘stop’, and his feet click into place. A single word - said just right - and Crowley’s whole being clicks into place. He’s so desperate for that sense of control and centre that he falls into step without a moment’s hesitation.

And he does it so _beautifully_. His cheeks staining soft, rosé-ripe. His breathing slow and steady. His lips lightly parted, his spine curved and readied. He yearns for this, and when he’s giving the demon this, then… then Aziraphale feels… it feels…

Right. Like it did, once. When you could listen and obey, and believe.

Not that he is any God, and not that is anything like Heaven, but it’s…

(Is it blasphemous to say it’s better? She still created this. Surely She must understand…)

Aziraphale lies on the _chaise longue_, his arms lifted above his head, feeling the warm hands unwrap his frame. They peel the stays and ties apart, treating him like he’s a precious and delicate tome, and he savours the sensation of a whorled fingertip against bare skin. His eyes close to hone in on the heat, the slight friction, the faint scritch of a sound. His demon knows just where to touch, where to kiss.

Lips to the edge of his smile as a bow comes undone. A nose to his neck, making his toes curl. Flayed open, his clothes butterflying out like fabric feathers of society’s wings drawn back. Adam and Eve had never been ashamed to begin with, and neither had he.

Nor will he again. Not when he looks up and sees the rapture and reverence on his lover’s face. He smiles and gives his permission, and hands ease his heels towards his ass, before a pillow slides beneath him and opens him up like an offering on the altar. A fattened sheep, perhaps, but the snake’s tongue will have him before the fire ever will.

Crowley’s mouth is sinful and divine in one. He makes love with it as easily as he breathes, and how could anyone doubt this creature was made for that? For love, as much as obedience. He sinks to his knees and licks new prayers up the insides of his thighs. Kisses and nibbles, making the angel’s flesh wobble with delight. He puts his hands into that firey-red crown and _pulls_, pulls enough to sting, enough to get that tongue to work inside of him and remind him how it feels to be so loved, so wanted, so desired. 

It isn’t sin. It can’t be. No matter what they think, She would never deny her children this joy. Not when it is freely offered, freely given. Swirl after swirl, winding the spring in his spine and making him call, low and hungry. When he’s vocal, his demon blushes harder. _Works_ harder. Works his ass like it’s the Times crossword, cryptic. Pulls a slobbery face free when the hands ease back, and gulps his cock down to the root.

There is nothing like the demon’s throat. Nothing in the world. No oyster, wet and delicious. No sushi, piquant and fresh. No wine, no stew, no soup. No music, no sunlight, no book. It’s molten heat and an embrace down to the core, and Aziraphale cries out again, ordering him not to stop. 

(Begging? No. Not yet.)

Fingers crook inside of him, plucking him, stuffing him, teasing past a ring of nothing but bliss. He’s in ecstasy, and he never wants it to stop. He could come now, down that swallowing abyss. Pull him back and paint his answer over lips and cheeks. He could bounce his hips and find his truth, but… it…

It isn’t what he wants. Not today.

“Fuck me,” the angel growls, with the full certainty of one who knows he will get what he wants.

His cock falls from that mouth, shock replacing it. Crowley stares at him, his lips as red as blood.

“Now.” There is no argument in his tone. Aziraphale wants that cock, and he wants it right. The fuck. Now.

There is no shame, not really. It is a physical reaction, just like sneezing. It is natural and normal. It is…

...it is so, so much more. 

It is trusting himself to the demon’s hands. Trusting his body and happiness to his touch. Trusting him enough to bare his needs, more than his flesh.

It is… pleasure. Joy. Joy **shared**. Given freely, without a demand for the repayment. Taken freely, as the gift it is. It is… knowledge. Knowing the other, with an intimacy he would never dream of offering any other being. It is… love. At least, it is the way they do it.

“Yes, angel.”

He’s soft and dreamy, the harsh gravel gone and replaced with lavender-scented honey. No jittery eyes on the exits, no balancing every word he says. Crowley is free, at least for now, because he knows his angel’s wings will shelter him. Knows he can follow, at least for a little while. Knows he can let go.

The slide in is firm, but considered. Considerate, even. Knees braced and hands shoring him up. Aziraphale wraps his legs around the demon’s waist, holding and keeping his eyes. He’s got a gorgeous cock, and Aziraphale loves to feel it inside of him. Feel the edges between ‘self’ and ‘other’ erode as they climb closer. It warms within him, full and fat and primed with promise. Gentle rocking and rolling, as they find the new equilibrium. 

The chaise is not the best place for this, but that’s part of the thrill. To be so close to falling, and to twist the world to their wanting. His hands demand wings with taps to shoulderblades, and are rewarded at once. Black, velvety feathers arch above them like a bower, like a canopy to shield this from prying eyes. Aziraphale does not care to hide, but he sinks his fingers into downy coverts, into clumps to hold and use as leverage. He tilts his hips, and urges him to move.

Crowley - of course - obeys. He’s such a good boy, at heart. Mischievous, yes. Sometimes selfish, sometimes petty, but when isn’t Aziraphale those things, too? But he cares - oh, he cares so much - and it’s there in the shine of his eyes.

He says it, without words. Says it with the acts, the offerings, the gifts. With the thoughts he never voices, but which guide his hands and deeds. He’s good, dipped in sin. He’s… perfect.

And he says it, when he follows his angel’s orders without a moment’s delay.

His feet plant on the floor, one hand on the angel’s shoulder, the other on the chaise, holding on for dear life. His thrusts start to piston slowly, driving that length past his rim and into his core. He feels the stroke against his walls, feels the slam of balls that means no more. Rut, rut, rut. Giving him precisely the stimulation he craves, making his whole being sing with bliss. It’s a hedonistic delight he can’t deny he loves, and feeling so… _adored_ soothes something deep inside himself, too. Makes him feel… _right_.

Words of praise pour from his lips, sincere and soul-deep. How beautiful he is. How strong. How good. How--

(Crowley always falters, always struggles. His eyes begging the angel not to say it, not to break the spell. Not to lift the curtain and look behind.)

How **good**. And _clever_. And delightful. How generous. How brave. How well he behaves. How well he treats him. How he makes his angel feel such delight. How he makes his days so wonderful, how he makes this world a home…

Aziraphale knows Crowley will only abide, will only allow such secrets when he’s thoroughly under. When the chains of his command have sunk into his bones. When he’s locked into place, and when he did so willingly. When this is over, when they are ‘normal’, again (for a while), he will scoff. He will growl, or cut him off. He will shrug those shoulders, and the layers of defence will bounce his compliments away. (Even if he hoards them, secretly, magpie-like, to his heart.)

But now he can’t run. Not with an angel’s legs tied around his waist. Not with an angel’s fingers sunk so deep in his wings he could pluck them bare. Not with an angel’s body welcoming him inside like he belongs. And he… doesn’t smile. No. But the look on his face is so, so much more than a smile.

So he tells him. Tells him he can’t live without him. Tells him those secret dreams, thoughts, wishes, hopes. Tells him of the longing of a life half-lived, and the sheer victory of living it at last. Begs - orders - begs - him to go faster, harder. Harder! No, **harder**.

So hard the legs of the couch shake beneath them. So hard his demon has to paw and find more purchase on the ground. So hard the shudder moves up his thighs like seismic shockwaves. So hard he is sure there’s a point where they touch inside, where he can go no more. 

Aziraphale rides the storm in his arms, bucking like he’s broken, calling like he’s just found he owns a voice to use. His demon screws like a tornado, like a summer’s sky booming full of energy just waiting to be free. He fucks like he’s found Heaven again, and won’t let go. Fucks like he means it.

And oh, does Aziraphale love it. 

He’s wanted. He’s loved. He’s trusted. He’s… _right_.

Crowley trusts him, with everything he is. Trusts him, and adores him. Worships him and wants him happy. Knows him… and stays. 

He won’t come until the angel does. Won’t allow himself until the nod, until the permission is granted. And Aziraphale will hold out for as long as his mind can stay in charge, because to end this soon would be a travesty beyond compare. To end this too soon would be to waste the lightning into the sea. 

He’ll come when there’s no other choice. When there’s nothing to do but give way. When the command from his body controls his heart and mind at last.

Then he’ll spend, and sigh, and feel the hot rush of his beloved’s seed gush inside of him. He’ll tug lips to his to kiss between gasps and groans. He’ll coo praise and adoration and pride and satisfaction. Tug his demon into his arms, and let him curl up on his chest.

Eventually. When it’s time.

You don’t wait for all of creation for a love like this, then let it get away with half measures. Oh no. You milk it for all it’s worth.

Crowley was made to obey. To question, yes, but to obey. 

He just never had the right orders until now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Served](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21360220) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)


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